


Needing Sherlock Holmes

by biancadelfellatio



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, Poor John, Questioning, Reichenbach-Related, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biancadelfellatio/pseuds/biancadelfellatio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a text post from tumblr user aceofultron:<br/>"soulmate au where instead of your soulmates first words to you written on your skin it's their last words you ever hear them say so you don't know who your soulmate is until you lose them"</p><p>A journey through daily life as it happens via John's internal perspective, mostly. He doesn't realize how much he truly needs Sherlock Holmes until it's a bit too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needing Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so it's the time of the year where seasonal affective disorder sets in and I thought to try out this new coping mechanism where I write about bodily harm instead of inflicting it, so let's see how this works out.  
> I wanted to give the characters some depth, and when I was pondering where to start, I decided to go from the very beginning.  
> I do anticipate this to be lengthy, and I used some of the exact transcript from the show (much thanks to arianedevere on livejournal, I used hers) as well as adding my own scenes.  
> I didn't know what to rate this because of prominent suicidal themes later on.  
> I'll be uploading this to ff.net as well because I've been on there longer.  
> Lastly, as much as I'd love to be, I'm not British, so I'm not sure how accurately I can capture British life.

John found himself staring at the word a lot when he was in Afghanistan. It was a source of comfort and stress at the same time, and he often wished his word wasn't so simple.

Some of the other soldiers had more interesting words on more interesting parts of their bodies. Like Gary, his said, "Left on Cornwallis," located above his knee; or Tom's, which read, "Get into the bunker!" across his collarbones. Tom didn't think his words were interesting though, he thought they were gruesome- his soulmate was likely here, fighting alongside him, going to die sometime in battle; maybe already dead.

At least their words gave them some context. In small, script letters on John's wrist, read, "Yes." John sat in his uncomfortable, wooden bottom bunk at night and ran his fingers over the words. It gave him comfort, that someone was out there for him (Arthur had no words and therefore no soulmate, poor dear) but John's thoughts would always drift to the possibility that his soulmate was already dead, or how many other people simply say "yes" before they die.  
\--  
John shoots up in bed, blinking out images of his friends running across the battlefield, being shot at. John is panting, his brain conjuring up gore and blood and his fallen comrades and-

John shifts his gaze down to his wrist, reading over and over, "Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes." He's hoping for the serene feeling of knowing his soulmate is somewhere out there, but the words don't give him comfort this time, as gunshots and anguished cries cut through his line of focus. 

John lays back on his bed. He knows he's not still in the middle of a battlefield, but he allows himself the pleasure of not trying to force away the violent flashbacks. He releases the tension in his chest as images slide through his mind, but the feeling comes back almost immediately as John begins to sob.

Once he's tired himself out and laid in silence for hours, trying to nurse his newfound breakdown-induced migraine, John needs to clear his head. He decides to get up and go for a walk; maybe that will do something to free up his brain. He can't bear the idea of trying to grasp some strand of thought interesting enough to put on his blog, though he knows he should make some effort to appease his psychologist. But John would much rather take in some new stimuli to hopefully push out the old, corrupt memories.

He gets his cane and hobbles out of his decrepit flat. The door gives a piercing screech- the hinges are obviously unhappy about existing for this many years. John cringes at the unsavory noise and reminds himself that his living condition is only temporary; at his therapist's advice, he's going to try to peacefully get back in contact with his sister and stay with her, though John doubts that would be savory for either party.

He leans heavily on his cane as he travels the hallway to the door leading out. John's knee shoots protests through his nervous system, but he ignores them, along with his damn limp. He's going to get the fresh air he needs if he has to bloody hop through London on one foot.

John opens the door and a hopeful ray of sunlight hits him. He squints and grimaces, closing the building's entryway. Did he remember to lock his flat door? Ah, it doesn't really matter, it's not like anyone would willingly enter such a sad building. 

John makes his way down the steps, his right hand gripping his cane and his left gripping the iron railing. As he descends the five steps, he ponders where exactly he wants to walk, and decides on Russell Square. There's quite a nice green space there, and ample benches. As much as he doesn't want to admit it to himself, John knows he's going to have to take breaks as he finds he's been tiring much easier lately.

It doesn't take more than ten minutes for John to reach his destination. He walks down one of the paved walkways, eyes turned upwards to the sky. It's a beautiful day, and the trees have most of their leaves still, the green contrasting nicely against the sky.

"John!"

What? That was Rupert, alerting him to a threat behind him- no, no it wasn't. Rupert was still deployed overseas. Then who…?

"John Watson!" John turns to see a plump man hurrying towards him, stuffing the paper he was reading in his briefcase. His tie is brightly striped and pops out at John's eyes. John tries not to furrow his brow as his mind struggles to recollect the familiar persona grinning at him.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford," the man reminds him. Mike extends his hand. His eyebrows are raised in enthusiasm. "We were at Bart's together."

Ah! "Yes, sorry, yes, Mike. Hello, hi." John shook Mike's hand. No wonder John hadn't recognized him. He couldn't fathom how many years it had been since he had seen Mike; he had gotten glasses and put on a generous amount of weight.

"Yeah, I know. I got fat!" Mike smiles and gestures to his stomach.

John blows air out his nose, shaking his previous thoughts out of his head. "No." The word comes out a bit more sarcastic than he intends.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at," Mike voices, non-discreetly eyeing John's cane. "What happened?"

John thinks it's a bit rude of him to ask, considering the amount of attention he's lavishing on John's crippleness. 

"I got shot," John says bluntly, shifting his gaze to his shoes. He had bought them a few days ago at a secondhand shop, and the side of the right was scuffed, but John bought them nonetheless. He thought it would comfort him that the loafers were broken in.

"Hey," interrupts Mike, "What do you think about grabbing a coffee? The cafe's right there, and we could catch up." John looks up at Mike, who turns up the side of his mouth in some kind of conciliatory effort. Despite not wanting to relive more war experiences (it seems that's all people want to hear about, now that he's returned) and solely wanting to enjoy his walk, John finds himself agreeing and starting off to the cafe with his ex-classmate.

They don't talk much inside the shop, John not wanting to prompt any questions about the past few months, but he does ask Mike what he recommends to drink. Mike suggests his regular, some kind of whipped latte with some cracker crust thing sprinkled on top of it. Despite the input, John decides to order a plain black coffee, which Mike insists on paying for.

"Really, Mike, you don't have to feel obligated to-"

"Nonsense John, it's my treat." What is that in Mike's eyes, pity? Ugh. "I'm the one who wanted to catch up anyway, it's the least I can do. We can take them back to the bench, enjoy the scenery while we drink, yeah?"

John doesn't have the strength to argue about something so trivial, so he pulls the side of his mouth up in a smile and murmurs a thank you. He watches Mike as he ends up finding the exact pence for the order after digging in his coat pocket for a moment, and moves to the right to wait for the barista to complete their drinks.

John shifts his weight somewhat uncomfortably, too far from the counter now to put forth the effort to push through the line of people to his acquaintance. He looks down at his fingers, periodic spasms causing them to tap randomly on the head of his cane. He begins to worry about holding his coffee, thinking about how embarrassing it would be if he shook so much he dropped he cup or spilled the liquid. He glances back at Mike, who quickly shifts his gaze away from John. He was staring. 

He's uncomfortable with the way I carry myself, and if I spill my drink, well, he'll probably have expected it, thinks John, who straightens as Mike starts his way with a cup in each hand.

"Here you are," smiles Mike, pushing the coffee into John's free hand.

"Thank you," John replies as they make their way back out to the benches. The air smells like decaying roses and tree bark. John doesn't mind it, but after he's seated on the bench he holds the mouth of the coffee under his nose, savoring the aroma. He placates himself with the sky, again, as Mike takes a seat next to him, and then decides he should at least be decent enough to try to initiate conversation (after all, he was just treated to a cuppa.)

He turns to Mike, who smiles with his eyes. "Are you still at Bart's then?"

Mike nods. "Yeah, I'm teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be." John can't help but smile as warm memories from his university years flood back. Everything appeared it was to go upward from there: future promises of a degree, solid five-figure job, a wife and kids in a modest house on the suburbs… 

Mike's giggle interrupts John's train of thought.

"God, I hate them!" Mike continues, and his tone prompts John to laugh as well. It's rather nice; John had almost forgotten what it felt like.

When their laughter begins to lull, Mike asks, "What about you? Just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?" 

John's smile slowly fades. Ah, there's the kicker. At least Mike had the sense to bring it up casually. 

"I can't afford London on an army pension," John says, his bland, musty flat pushing itself unwelcomingly into his train of thought.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else." Mike tilts his head back slightly, eyes pushing down at John in understanding. "That's not the John Watson I know."

John's eyes can't seem to focus on any one object as he responds, "Yeah, I'm not the John Watson…" John stops as emotion takes his voice. Mike senses his tension and quickly busies himself in his latte. 

John notices his own drink starting to shake, and he moves the cup to his other hand. Really, NOT NOW. He makes a fist, pressing his hand down into his leg to try and silence it.

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike asks, out of the blue. John can't help but snort, imagining the future confrontation when John comes to her door, Harry likely being drunk, and John begging for a place to stay. 

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen." He can see it now. Harry squinting at him, waving a bottle of whatever disgusting beer she had decided to binge on that night.

"I dunno, get a flatshare or something?" Mike ponders aloud. John looks back at him, appreciating the mental effort Mike's exhausting, trying to solve the problem that John has been debating for weeks. 

John tilts his head towards Mike. "Come on- who'd want me for a flatmate?" John gestures to his leg with his shaking hand, getting the most benefit out of his post war patheticness. 

To his surprise, Mike laughs at his statement. John's not sure whether he should be offended or laugh along.

"What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today," Mike explains. John raises his eyebrows.

"Who was the first?" he asks.

"Ah, you up for a bit of walking?" Mike counters. That was John's original intent anyhow, and his interest is peaked, so he immediately agrees. They stand up and the pair begins to head down one of the trails back the way John initially entered the park. Mike throws his drink away on the way, and John wonders how he finished it so quickly. He throws his away as well, despite still having a quarter of a cup.

"We're headed to St. Bart's Hospital," Mike announces as they begin the short walk, but he refuses to name the person he's taking John to meet. John has to admit that puts him a bit on edge. Might he be going to meet someone else out of the service, whom Mike also gives that piteous look? If the person is likeminded enough to John that Mike has deemed it likely they should find each other acceptable roommates, then, he shouldn't have too much cause to worry. John doesn't push the question further, and their conversation slowly subsides as the pair start to breathe heavier due to physical assertion.

As they enter the building, the first thing John sees is the reception desk, and he's hit with a pang of concern as he didn't bother to grab any identification from his flat on the way out. It's only a nod from Mike to the woman behind the desk, however, and she offers up a smile and goes back to her paperwork. 

Mike walks over to a coat stand to the left of the desk and removes his beige coat, tugging a bit at his dress shirt afterwards. It's clinging to perspiration on his back and shoulders. Mike gestures to John, offering to relive him of his jacket as well, but John raises a hand in polite denial. He then follows Mike through a couple sterile hallways until they encounter a staircase that leads both up and down. Mike turns back to face John, who has been trying to keep his limp to a minimum.

"What do you think, morgue or laboratory?" Mike questions.

John's eyebrows scrunch up. "Sorry?"

"Any preference? Your flatmate to be seems to frequent those two rooms of the hospital." The debate seems to be more for Mike himself than John, as Mike purses his lips, judging his fifty percent chance of choosing the proper direction.

"Let's try the lab," Mike decides, heading to the flight upwards, gripping the rail on the inside. "You're okay with stairs?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes." John ascends the stairs behind Mike, though he does have to take them a bit slower to accommodate his cane. This person must be some sort of scientist, then? Colleague of Mike's, perhaps? Forensic pathologist? Perhaps a doctor as well? John feels a smile tugging at his lips- that would be rather fun, wouldn't it, living with someone, debating patient diagnoses and the newest deadly pathogens. He can't deny the smallest pang of anxiety bubbling in his stomach, however, as he reaches the top of the flight and rounds the corner with Mike.

Mike stops at the first door they come to in the hallway, peering through the small vertical window off-centered on the lab door. 

"Ah." Mike grins at John before turning back to the door and knocking. He enters immediately after, holding the door to allow John access into the room.

The only other figure in the room is intimidatingly tall, interrupted from his laboratory work by their entrance. He stares back at John for a moment, and John remembers it's rude to stare, so he quickly diverts his gaze to the new equipment in the lab. He'd been in labs such as this at St. Bart's when he was schooling here, but what he used for scientific experimentation seemed primitive compared to all these shiny new gadgets.

"Well, bit different from my day," John says, raising his eyebrows. His age comes back and slaps him in the face, so he redirects his attention back to the tall man, who has stopped towering over whatever he was doing with his petri dish and taken a seat in front of a slick-looking microscope. John knows not to judge people based on solely their appearance, but he is made re-aware of the gnawing in his stomach. The way this man is built simply radiates intimidation, from his sharp blue eyes to his prominent cheekbones.

"You've no idea," Mike laughs, interrupting John from his thoughts. It takes John a moment to remember what he said initially, and once he does he offers Mike a similar smile.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" comes the piercing voice of the man. It's deep- fitting, John thinks- and adds to the air of sophistication the man carries about him.

"There's no signal on mine," he continues. He looks at Mike expectantly, and John thinks the judgment coming off this man is palpable. His gaze is unwavering, and John can see the gears turning in his head. How rude to judge a friend (or coworker?) like that.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike counters, keeping steady eye contact. Rather impressive, John notes, though the foreign man has a somewhat addictive vibe.

"I prefer to text." The man keeps his face oddly devoid of emotional expression through the exchange.

"Sorry," says Mike, apologizing with his hands, "It's in my coat."

John feels the need to make a good first impression. He rapidly digs in his back pocket for his cell.

"Uh, here, use mine," hurries John, pushing the phone into the air towards the man. His eyes flicker from John to his phone, to Mike, and back to John.

"Oh. Thank you," he says, standing and rounding the lab counter to John.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike introduces as the man squints at John and delicately accepts the cell phone. John casts a questioning look at Mike: You'll tell him my name, but I still have no idea who he is?

John notices the man's eyes flutter over his body so quickly their movement could easily not be observed, but John doesn't feel so badly about judging the man on first impressions. He does the same, apparently. The man turns when texting so his shoulder blocks John's view of the front of his body. Bit rude. John doesn't know how he feels about this supposed scientist.

His not so favorable impressions of the man are interrupted when he says, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" 

What? John sees Mike smirk out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't dare take his immediate vision off the man. The man who somehow knows he was deployed… what? That's impossible, how on earth did Mike manage to tell him that before they arrived? John hadn't seen him texting on their way over.

"Sorry?" John asks in disbelief.

"Which was it- Afghanistan or Iraq?" is the only reply. The man raises his crystal eyes to meet John's confused ones before he goes back to texting. John tears himself away and turns to look at Mike: how did you…? Mike simply shrugs, smiling, and gestures to the man.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you…?"

John's question isn't dignified with an answer as the man's interest is instead peaked by a young lady who enters the room with a mug of liquid.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." He slides the phone shut and hands it back to John without meeting his eyes. Bit rude. The man reaches for the coffee but seems to be a bit perturbed. 

"What happened to the lipstick?" he asks, glancing between the woman and the coffee, not looking particularly thrilled about either.

"It wasn't working for me," smiles the girl, obviously embarrassed. Great, he's also a twat to women, John thinks. Is he pleased about being the center of attention, here?

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement," he says as he turns his back to her and walks back to his microscope station. "Your mouth's too small now."

"Okay," she mumbles, and starts out. John follows her with his eyes, wanting to say something comforting, but he figures it's not his place to.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

The question doesn't register as addressed towards him for a moment, as he watches the girl leave and shifts his grip on his cane. Only when he looks up at Mike and sees his expectant look does his brain try to regurgitate the sentence.

"Sorry, what?" John feels like he's apologizing more than usual lately. 

"I play the violin while I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end," the man says while clacking away on a computer. John wonders how much focus he's really diverting to the conversation. 

"Would that bother you?" he asks, looking up to meet John's eyes. Something in them captivates John, and a wave of self-consciousness washes over him.

"Potential flatmates ought to know the worst about each other," he concludes, scrunching up his face in what John hopes isn't the man's genuine smile. A lot of him seems painfully superficial. John shakes his head. What extent of information about John had Mike disclosed to this stranger? John turns to Mike, his face contorted into something odd.

"Oh, you- you told him about me?" asks John, somewhat accusatorially. 

"Not a word," replies Mike, obviously enjoying the exchange between John and his potential flatmate.

John feels speechlessness slip over him, but he's too confused to allow his vocal cords to be paralyzed in such a way. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did," says the man flatly, as if it's painfully obvious. He picks up a long, heavy black coat and proceeds to don it whilst continuing his train of thought.

"Told Mike earlier that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." He gave John a minuscule acknowledgment for the information of the location of his deployment. "Wasn't that difficult a leap."

Who did this man think he was? 

John glances down at his shoes to gather the confidence to ask, "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

Continuing to dress for going out, the man wraps a blue striped scarf around his neck.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it," he says, ignoring John's confusion entirely. BIT RUDE. 

The man checks his phone as he starts towards John. John watches the man's movements closely, his patience beginning to wear thin.

"We'll meet there tomorrow evening," the man states, catching John's eyes for affirmative attention, "seven o' clock. Sorry, got to dash." As soon as the man connects with John, he's over him, moving quickly past to the door.

"I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." The nerve of this man!

"Is that it then?" blurts out John before the man leaves, a bite audible in his voice. The man turns, brow furrowed only slightly in the most genuine emotion John's seen from him so far.

"Is that what?" he asks curiously, taking a few steps back in John's direction. He puts his hands in the pockets of his long coat.

"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?" John questions. The man looks across to Mike and back to John.

"Problem?" John looks across to Mike as well. Was this seriously happening?

"We don't know a thing about each other," John starts, his nose turned up slightly, "I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." He raises his eyebrows to emphasize his point. The man stands poignant for a moment, perhaps to stare him down. He squints.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan, I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him- possibly because he's an alcoholic, but more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic." He pauses to glance down at John's leg. John follows his gaze as well, uncomfortably shifting.

"Quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" the man finishes. He tries to keep his face as neutral as possible, but he's obviously quite pleased with his work. 

John, on the other hand, feels like he's been kneed in the gut, all his personal information splayed out on the table. That was… quite impressive. John exhales as he tries to come with any explanation about how this man was able to correctly assume so much about his life, with one small technicality, but nevertheless…

The man leaves him drowning in his train of thought and opens the door, making to leave but popping his head back in. 

"The name," he adds, "is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one Baker Street." John is somewhat taken aback as Sherlock Holmes winks at him, addressing Mike as an afterthought with, "Afternoon." Just like that, he's gone, the billow of his coat as he strides away the last John sees of him through the window in the lab door.

John turns to Mike, trying to keep his mouth closed. Mike grins at his expression. John is sure he looks like something of an idiot.

"Yep, he's always like that," Mike says.

John lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding in. "It's a wonder, really, that finding a flatmate for him is so difficult." Mike's smile slowly begins to die as he gets down to business.

"Penny for your thoughts? Think you could stand coming home to that everyday?" The phrasing of Mike's second question causes John to cock an eyebrow.

"Well, it isn't as if I've got a better option." The flat was worth a look, anyway. What else would John do, have a fight with Harry and end up having to leave London anyway? Sherlock Holmes may offset him, but John supposes he would be an acquired taste. Besides, he could always leave. But-

"What exactly does he do, for a living?" John wonders.

"Well," says Mike, meandering his way over to the door, "I fancy you'll be looking him up later. He's got a website where he can do a better job explaining what exactly it is what he does than I'll be able to." The pair exit the laboratory and retrace their steps down the stairs.

"Why does he own a riding crop?" John asks during the ensuing silence. The joke was impeccably timed, and they both burst out in laughter. Mike doesn't answer, reaching for his coat.

"I'm afraid I've got to get back to work," he says, fumbling with the coat sleeves. He's having some trouble putting them on, but gives John a once-over in the process. "You going to be alright?"

"I'll be fine," assures John, straightening up his own jacket as well. "I've got a flat to look forward to viewing tomorrow, yeah?" John smiles and so does Mike. Mike digs his phone out of his jacket pocket and hands it to John.

"You have fun with that. Here, put your number in, so we can stay in touch, mate." John presses in a series of numbers and his name and hands the phone back to Mike. It reminds him of the circumstances from a few moments earlier.

"It was great catching up with you," John says, to give their meeting some closure. "And thanks for- introducing me, I guess?"

Mike nods, tucking the phone back in his pocket. "You two will probably hit it off." John agrees, shifting his weight.

"Well, erm," Mike points to a hallway, "shortcut to my office is this way, so. You'll get home okay?"

"Yeah," John grimaces. Still a cripple. "Don't worry about me."

"Right. Text if you need anything or wanna catch up some more."

"Thanks." Mike starts down the hallway with a slight waddle. When he reaches the end, he turns back and waves before rounding the corner.

John stands in the lobby for a moment before realizing that's his cue to take leave. He exits the hospital and takes a left to start his walk home, deciding that was enough excitement for one day. As he hobbles down the street, taking notes of places he'd like to eat and alleyways he'd like to explore, his mobile rings. He pulls it out of his back pocket. Oh, fuck. It's his therapist, Ella Thompson. He doesn't feel like explaining to her why he didn't show up for his therapy session, so he waits for the call to ring out.

The blog, thinks John. I can placate her by actually posting something. I actually think I have something decent to write about, for once. 

While on his phone, he looks through his sent messages. The last one sent reads, 'If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH' How odd. John doesn't want to start sifting through his opinions of Sherlock Holmes until he has more data on him, so he forces the thoughts out of his mind for the time being.

John doesn't push anyone out of the way, by any means, but there's something urgent in his step as he makes his way back to the hellish flat. His knee isn't very happy about his urgency.

When he gets back, he finds he was correct about his hunch about leaving his door unlocked. With a glance, he sees nothing in the main room of his flat is out of place. A quick peek in the bathroom assures the same there. 

He immediately strides over to the desk, sitting in the not so comfortable desk chair. He pulls his laptop out of the drawer and massages his knee while he waits for it to boot up. He pleads with it with silent words, cursing it for not allowing him to access the information he wants faster.

Once logged in, he slams the internet icon repeatedly until the program opens with several windows. He chooses one and googles, 'Sherlock Holmes.' A website, 'The Science of Deduction,' comes up. That seems fitting. That must be the website Mike was referring to.

John clicks the link and scrolls through the homepage. 'World's only consulting detective?' What did that even mean? He browses some of the other pages and finds archived cases Holmes appears to have solved. The way they're written is somewhat stale. Still, impressive. Very impressive, the way this man has trained his mind.

Having read through all the information he could find, John closes the window and opens the one behind it to his blog page. Ella thought writing a blog would help him cope (psssh) but nothing notable had happened to write about. Today, however, had presented the most excitement since John had returned to the UK.

He clicked 'New Post,' knowing he would be able to follow through with an entire post, this time. 

'A strange meeting,' he titled it.


End file.
